


On Any Other Day

by jimisfabby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, happy sebastian-has-been-alone-for-a-year-iversary, pretty much entirely, yep um so light festive angst???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimisfabby/pseuds/jimisfabby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two mornings in Sebastian Moran's life. Routine proves to be more destructive than gunshots from a rooftop sniper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Any Other Day

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this originally in June and posted it on my blog (which is now called molotovmybrotherwithholyfire just to let you know xoxo) and I thought I may as well join in in the spirit of dead geniuses and repost this.  
> (also please bear in mind: i wrote this in an hour 6 months ago -- i know it could be better but alas i am lazy)
> 
> Have fun.

On any normal morning, Sebastian Moran wakes up at around six am to the small warm form of Jim Moriarty curled up into a tight sleepy ball snuggling into his side. Sebastian smiles because there’s no way in Hell Jim’d ever let anyone see him like that when conscious and he carefully gets out of bed, the sleeping Jim stirring but not waking. 

_Good. If he did I’d have Hell to pay._

He showers, and then proceeds to the kitchen, making himself a cup of black coffee because for him it’s just a sleep-staving-off resource and not at all pleasing to drink, and settles down to clean his rifle or to go over mission plans. Two hours later, like clock-work, he stops everything he’s doing, and makes two more cups of coffee -- black again for himself, some ridiculously complicated cappuccino or whatever it is for Jim. He’ll leave Jim’s coffee on the side, and then make their breakfast. After about ten minutes, the man himself will saunter in, collecting his coffee, and go to sit down at the table where Sebastian is waiting because, _“manners, Sebastian, one doesn’t start his food when the other isn’t present,”_ and start on the tiny portion of food that Sebastian knows is all he’ll eat. Or not. But they will always sit together, Jim informing Sebastian on the people he’s going to shoot that day, Sebastian nodding and making mental notes as he finishes his bacon. And it works.

The morning after the Fall, Sebastian doesn’t quite notice in his sleep-deprived state that the little warm ball of Jim isn’t beside him.

 _He’s in his office, probably has some scheme to plan._

Sebastian gets up, has his shower, makes his black coffee, and goes to sit down and clean his rifle because he doesn’t have any mission plans to go over because Jim hadn’t given him any. Two hours later, like clockwork, he goes and makes two more cups of coffee – black again for himself, some ridiculously complicated cappuccino or whatever it is for Jim. He leaves Jim’s coffee on the side and makes breakfast, taking the plates over to the table about ten minutes later and sitting down, sipping his coffee, waiting for that short, dark-haired figure to waltz in, collect his coffee and pick at the food on the plate in front of him. So he waits. 

And waits.

And waits.

Jim doesn’t come through the door. Sebastian cannot help but register that the food is getting cold, and Jim’s coffee’ll be ruined.  
 _But he’s probably just showering, that’ll be it._  
So he waits. 

And waits.

And waits.

And he’s had enough of waiting, because he’s hungry and needs Jim to arrive before he can start because, _“manners, Sebastian, one doesn’t start his food when the other isn’t present,”_ and he doesn’t enjoy having snide abusive comments hurled at him this early in the day. He sits, watching the doorway.

No one enters.

And then it hits him, and then there are shards of broken coffee mug on the floor, and cold, ridiculously complicated cappuccino is making a sticky, bittersweet puddle on the floor and staining Sebastian’s trousers and he doesn’t care, and Sebastian is slumped against the work unit, and there are tears on his face, and the food is cold, and Jim isn’t working in his office or showering or dozing lightly in bed, because he will never saunter through that doorway and pick up his coffee again.

_He’s gone.  
He’s not coming back. _


End file.
